


The King and the Fódlan Lady

by Anam_Writes



Series: the things you can't read aloud at the war table [3]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: BDSM, Blow Jobs, Claude roleplays his own cuckolding, Cunnilingus, Dom Claude von Riegan, Dom/sub, Dry Orgasm, F/M, Flogging, Gentle Sex, Kneeling, Married Couple, Married Sex, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Orgasm Denial, Post-Canon, Post-Time Skip, Roleplay, Safe Sane and Consensual, Safewords, Sex Toys, Sexual Roleplay, Spanking, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:47:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23665633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anam_Writes/pseuds/Anam_Writes
Summary: The Queen of Fódlan's consort is away on business - as he so often is - leaving her to care for the kingdom on her own.During a diplomatic visit to Almyra, Queen Byleth finds herself inextricably drawn to the King there. He is domineering. He is handsome. He is gentle.With a wink and a coy smile she might say he reminds her of a certain someone.(Or, Claude comes up with an elaborate roleplay for the chance to romance and seduce his wife for the first time all over again.)
Relationships: My Unit | Byleth/Claude von Riegan
Series: the things you can't read aloud at the war table [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1684297
Comments: 30
Kudos: 157





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> "The sound of a woman falling over." - [Maddy02](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maddy02/pseuds/Maddy02)
> 
> "I'm kinda in love with this baked potato." - Adri Nyx
> 
> "I'll never look at a box of crayons the same way again." - [mimiplz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mimiplz)
> 
> Thank you to [pelusoart](https://pelusoart.tumblr.com/) for the incredible cover art for this ridiculous harlequin project of mine. 
> 
> And to the lovely beta for the chapter,[Runic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Runic/pseuds/Runic), who I'm sure needs no introduction.
> 
> **In case it wasn't abundantly clear this is not a cheating fic**

There were no guards in the King’s wing of the palace. There need be none. Any fool enough to come to him with ill intent would meet a fate deserving of them by his own hands. And were those same intruders to best the Almyran ruler then the King would be deserving of whatever managed to befall him. There was no place for the weak or the unprepared in the Almyran court. Plots and intrigue were not the only reason to wander towards the King's chambers, however. 

The King of Almyra had watched her dance. 

Banquets here did not call for the same waltzes and lines that the balls of her home country did. Instead Byleth was led onto the floor by a distinguished Al-Kir cousin. The woman had taken her by the hand and shown her how to sway just so. When she tried it herself the torchlight fragmented off the crystals hanging from her hip, her skirts rippled in the hair and rose just enough to catch a flash of strong bare leg. Her hair, braided intricately and pinned up - as it was tradition in Almyra for married women to wear their hair any way but down - came loose in tendrils down the back of her neck as she danced. 

King Khalid III Al-Kir would not take his eyes from her. He leaned forward in his seat, smiled. Torch flames danced in his eyes as a partner for her to writhe in rhythm with. He licked his lips and raised a cup of mulled wine to quench his thirst. 

The Al-Kir cousin giggled when the song was done, took her to the side of the room to partake in liquor of a deep red shade made from pomegranate. 

“The King liked the way you danced,” she whispered in Byleth’s ear.

She liked the way he watched. 

"You know, the King's wing is traditionally open to any who wish to try their luck with him," the woman purrs. 

The trill of her voice made Byleth shiver. "At killing him?"

"Among other things," the Al-Kir hummed.

So she patters through his wing in the dead of night. Her candle is burning low as she navigates the labyrinthine corridors leading to the large teak doors. 

The patterns carved into them are intricate. She has seen such geometry repeat itself many times throughout the Al-Kir seat of power. She wonders at them and their purpose: aesthetic, symbolic, divine? 

Her husband - much better versed in Almyran ways and being dearly interested in their power and trade - had told her once that the artistry was in the mathematics of their architecture. The perfections of organic, cyclical geometry mirrored perfectly against one another in a network of regimented patterns - not a measurement off, not a stone out of place.

“It appears to me Almyra brings such philosophy to all things: her art, her training, her food. It is in equal parts passionate and methodical,” he had said. “I dearly wish to bring you there one day, my stars. I think you would enjoy it.”

But he had not brought her to Almyra. In fact he had left her soon after for many moons. When duty called her husband was bound by oath to answer it. 

Even if that leaves her here now. 

Byleth swallows, fidgeting with the gold ring on her finger. She has worn it only a year but the precious metal has left an indent in her skin. Feeling around the cut of the emerald on it had become ritual, a soothing one that grounded her. Even as her pulse races painfully in front of another’s man’s door, the habit works. 

Should she knock? The Al-Kir woman had told her anyone was free to enter the King's room for visitation with him and yet…

No, she'd read these novels before, hadn't she? They were the lurid ones her Archbishop had kept under lock and key so many years ago. Her young friend - more like family to her if she were to speak truthfully - Flayn had snuck her copies though. She was not sure where the Archbishop's own daughter got her steady supply, but nonetheless she was grateful. 

She'd read them all cover-to-cover, enraptured with the surety and boldness of the characters within. 

Her husband read each copy after she was done and was fond of them as well. 

"Should I have snuck unannounced into your room to proposition you when we were courting?" he waggled his eyebrows at her from over a page. 

They both knew very well she'd have cut him if he had. All the same she laughed. 

Perhaps, however, if she was to be the fair married lady and the King was to play his part then she'd had best take the advice from her raunchy books. 

Byleth takes the handle of the door, expecting to find a dark room and a hard body in bed to slip towards. 

Instead the oil lamps are lit all round the room. The fireplace is still alight. The bed is empty and made, clearly untouched at all. Books and papers litter the floor and the King sits, back to her, at a desk across the room, to the right of a large glass balcony door. 

A thousand thoughts run through her mind, a thousand plans form. If he's not seen her and he is working so late - it is almost midnight - then it may be best that she leave. If he's seen her she might apologize. Or she might go through with her proposition. 

It seems improper to her. 

To propose intercourse to a man while he slept in his bed was one thing, to interrupt a King at work was another.

"How long do you intend to stand there, Lady Byleth?" His voice feels loud in the silence of the room. "Come in or don't - it hardly matters - but if you stand in the doorway much longer you'll let the draft in from the hall." 

Instinct brings Byleth a step closer. She closes the door behind her and speaks before her mind can advise her otherwise. 

"I am not a Lady, actually," she tells him. 

King Khalid still does not turn. "Your husband is a Lord. Does that not make you a Lady?"

"My husband is a Lord," she nods. "But I am a Queen."

At this the King turns his head, glancing over his shoulder. He is not so ignorant as to be unaware of Fódlan's titles. More importantly, he is not so dense as to forget it is the Queen of Fódlan herself that he hosts in his home. Byleth knows this. Khalid knows she knows. 

All the same he grins wolfishly at her. 

"We are in my room, in my palace, on my land and I say you are a Lady," he says. The cut of his thinning eyes tells her he is quite amused with all this. "What have you to say to that?"

"You are the King in your domain," she nods "So it must be as you say."

Satisfied the King goes back to his work but continues to speak. "In truth I've been hoping you'd come to see me. That was quite the display you put on for me tonight."

The comment takes her by surprise and only some quick words can pass her lips. "Thank you."

"You're most welcome, Lady Byleth," she can hear him smiling. "Have you come to invoke your rights towards the King?"

"If you fear I am here to kill you, I am not," Byleth assures. 

It is not quite an answer and yet points, however delicately, to the purpose of her visit. Khalid does not miss this, evidenced by the chuckle that sits in the back of his throat. 

"Well, take a seat then while I decide whether I want you here," he says. 

Byleth looks about the room. There is no sofa or spread of blankets and cushions on which she can rest. "Am I to take the bed?" 

"Presumptuous thing, aren't you? I haven’t even decided if I want you to stay yet," he turns back around to his work. "See the cushion on the end? Grab it and drop it on the floor."

It is a thick cushion covered in golden silk. Outlining it is braided gold thread, ending in tassels at all corners. She does as she’s told, standing by the foot of the bed and tossing the large cushion onto the floor.

“Good. Now kneel.”

Byleth’s eyes dart from the cushion to the King at his desk. She can see him better from here. His face is stony and lit low. His mind is set to his work and he gives not the slightest indication he is watching for a reaction to his order.

“Kneel?” she asks. “You want me to kneel?”

“Or leave. I’m working and I hate to be rushed,” he answers. “If you want to play then you’ll kneel and be patient. If not, the door is there whenever you need it.”

There is not a hint of the teasing or playfulness she was used to. This is an option - a very plain, straightforward option. And the mundanity with which he spoke it, the unwavering sense of nonchalance, as though, if she were to leave it would be of no great loss. As though, were she to follow his order she might still run the risk he’d grow bored and leave her kneeling there, unsatisfied. 

She shivers. 

Byleth walks to the centre of the room and lowers to her knees, arranging her skirt and her hands to both fall comfortable in her lap. 

She thinks he might notice this. He might notice the way the sheer fabric of her slip flows over her thigh. He might notice, as she presses her nightgown into herself, that he can see the shade of her skin and lines of her body, that she wears nothing between herself and the sheer blend.

He does not praise her for kneeling. He does not even acknowledge it has happened. He does not look towards the trap of seduction she has set for his sights alone. Her choices are incidental to his night, even as they glower over her like a behemoth. 

What would be said of the Fódlan Queen who came here to kneel in a foreign King's room? What would they say if they knew she was playing with the thin skirt of her knight shift, fretting over whether or not the man even wanted her? What would they say if they knew she was shaking, anxious and heated at the idea that any moment now he could decide to put his hands on her?

Nothing flattering. 

“How long am I to wait?” Byleth asks.

The King turns to her, annoyance creasing his brow. “It’s not even been three minutes and already you ask?”

He stands from his seat and for a moment Byleth feels a sense of motion, like things are propelling forward. He is up, away from his work. It is a step closer to what she wants, what she came here for. But when the King stands above her - hands on his hips and so close he touches his toes to the end of her cushion - all that hope dies. 

“How do I feel about being rushed, my Lady?” he asks. His voice is stern, tired. 

She has upset him. Nothing could be further from what she wanted. She wanted him to need her, to hold her. She wanted a man to delight in her body and share that feeling of bliss she gifted with her. 

“You hate it,” she answers, remembering his words. 

“That’s right,” King Khalid tucks a stray hair behind her ear like a treat for her answer. “And do you suppose that’s going to get you what you want? Doing things I hate?”

She shakes her head, looking up his tall expanse to those smouldering eyes: green and dancing light, they remind her of wildfire.

“It would appear to me you don’t know the rules of the game you are trying to play,” the King sighs. “So allow me to enlighten you. I am your King. You are to follow my orders and please me to the best of your ability. When you please me I will reward you; when you displease me you will be punished. If you understand better now say ‘yes, my King.’”

“Yes, my King.” It falls from her as easy as air. 

“Now that that’s clear,” his brow relaxes and he seems in a better mood. “Do you want to play?”

“Yes.” This too is an easy answer. It feels natural to her. 

“Yes what?”

She shivers again. “Yes, my King.”

Her King takes a step back, looking her over and starting to circle. He does not touch her but all the same Byleth can feel him. 

“Then let's go over some basics,” he says. “I don’t humour brats and I certainly don’t take well to hotheads. I am your King and I expect you to be a Lady for me: graceful, intelligent, mature. If you’re mine you reflect on me; whining and arguing are beneath you. If you want something use your words and be respectful.”

“I understand, my King.”

“Well done,” he says. “We will have safewords. If I want to stop playing I will say Death Cap. If you want to stop playing you will say…”

“Lily.”

“Good. And should either of us want to pause our play we will say gold.”

“Yes, my King.”

“You’ll be kneeling for a while, my Lady, while I finish my work,” he tells Byleth. “Do you think you can manage that for me?”

Byleth draws in a breath, is about to say yes when the King cuts her off. “Be honest.”

“I've never been good at sitting still," she speaks true. "But I want to be good for you, my King."

"Such a sweet answer," his voice is honey toned when he says it. 

He's come around behind her and brushes her hair away from her neck, over one shoulder. The other he takes in a feather light grasp. She can barely feel that his fingers are even there. 

"I'd not be a very worthy King if I didn't provide for my Lady," he says. "So I'll teach you how to be soft for me. Are you ready to learn?"

"Yes, my King," she adjusts in her seat on the cushion. 

She's eager to be soft for him; it sounds so much easier than being as iron for everyone else. 

"I am going to count beats for your breathing," he explains to her. "I will count to four for each step. The pattern is in, hold, out, hold."

"I understand, my King."

His hand stills on her shoulder he feels her breath come in as they start. 

"In, two, three, four. Hold, two, three, four. Out, two, three, four. Hold, two, three, four."

He repeats himself until Byleth is following his rhythm down to the second. He uses his hand to keep track of the motion of her lungs and to rub gentle circles on her shoulder with his thumb once she falls into his template for her. 

“Now I want you to close your eyes, picture a place that makes you happy,” he says. “It can be real or imagined, bustling or empty. It just has to be somewhere that makes you happy and relaxed.”

She sees her husband sitting across from her in Garreg Mach’s garden. He’s sipping tea that’s filled with the needles of aromatic Almyran pine. He has dabbed oil infused with saffron on the pulse points of his neck and his wrist. He smells warm and sweet and the tea tastes fresh. 

Byleth does not realize that she has described the scene aloud until she feels breath by her ear. 

He looms over her and whispers, “Does your husband make you happy?”

She hesitates a second time and again he cuts her coming answer short. “Don’t lie. I want to hear the truth, not what you think will sound agreeable to me.”

“He makes me so happy,” she tells her King. She feels warm lips kiss her cheek and goes on. “I miss him so much when he’s away I can hardly bear it. And he’s so frightened, so frightened to be alone. Even surrounded by seas of people it scares him. It’s torture to be parted.”

“My poor Lady,” he kisses her cheek again, then the shell of her ear, then the top of her head. “Imagine your husband all you want if it makes you happy, sweetheart. Thank you for sharing your pain with me; I’ll hold it, treasure it and make it all better.”

“I know you will, my King,” she says, breath still even, still seeing a green gaze in her mind’s eye. 

“Such faith in me,” he sighs. “Such trust. I think I’m falling a little bit in love.”

She's falling in love again too. She wants to tell him but fears it will be too much for his game. 

"Be soft for me, my Lady," the King orders. 

She continues her breathing and imagining the garden tea for two. It occurs to her that she's seen her husband do something similar to this. Meditation, he'd called it - like prayer but not. 

He'd kneel on the star terrace at the Palace of Derdriu. Sometimes words would pass from his mouth, simple and sweet. Nothing like his poetry but contemplative all the same; like the repetition of the sounds might allow him to grasp better at the concepts they represent. 

It does not feel like long before the King has turned to her, though the ornate clock hung on his wall tells her a half hour has passed since she left the guest of honour's room. 

"You're doing better than I expected," he says.

"Thank you, my King," Byleth gives a nervous smile to him. 

He seems to be considering something before he pivots in his seat and looks back at his desk again. 

"There's a chest to your right," he says. "Crawl to it." 

She does just that. She makes sure to do so with as much grace as crawling can allow - which is admittedly little - in case he turns to spectate. He does not. 

Once she is there she kneels before the chest and looks over her shoulder at him. 

"Open it."

She does. 

She gasps at what she finds inside. He has toys - many, many toys. They are all neatly sorted into little compartments: a crop, a flogger, a wooden paddle all sorted together. Then pretty crystal vials filled with oils in another. Then there was another, the largest, filled with silk pouches of varying colours and sizes. 

"Do you see the drawstring purse? It's small, red, silk." 

"Yes, my King," she answers.

"Open it and take the contents to the bed."

Byleth does.

Inside is something she's never seen before. The likes of it are familiar. She knows enough to understand that it goes inside her. But it is new. It leans, slanted like many of her own toys are to hit her sweet spot. But it also reminds her of a knotted rope: slender for the most part with rounded bulges for her pleasure. At the end is a wide plug-like base from which to grip the toy. 

What she notices next about it is just how beautiful it is. It is a white ceramic that reminds her of her tea set back home. It is painted daintily in light green with murals of lily buds along the top knot, then half-bloom on the second, full bloom on the bottom then plucked and arranged in a bouquet at the base. She has never seen a prettier piece than this. 

She runs her finger along the length of it, savouring the cool, smooth feel. 

Now the King watches her. 

"I'm sorry; I'm taking too long, my King."

"No," he says, smiling. "I demand patience from you; it is only courtesy I extend you as much. Does it please my Lady?"

Byleth feels her smile grow, her heart swell. She feels lighter than she's been able to in a long while. "Yes, my King."

"I'm glad," he almost sighs. 

Byleth spends a second more admiring the toy before crawling over to the bed as asked, with the purse and the toy. She climbs up the frame onto the mattress. As she does her nightgown catches around her knees, tripping her so she flops with little grace onto her back after pulling herself up.

He laughs. "You crawl so prettily but your upwards mobility could use some work."

"I'm in a gown, my King," she defends herself. "I wore it for you. Should I not have, since it makes me so clumsy?"

When she raises her head from the bed she is pleased to find he is looking at her, even if it is only because she caught him mid-glance. All the same, she is starting to truly grab his attention. 

"Your efforts are appreciated, but please, make yourself comfortable," he says. "Bring up your skirt. You might find it's in the way for what I'll have you do."

Byleth raises her hips, brings sheer, silky fabric up to pool around her belly. 

She spreads her bare legs out on the bed and calls back to him. "Like this, my King?" 

He waves his hand in a relenting gesture. "I'm sure it's fine as long as you're comfortable. Now, get yourself ready."

Byleth hesitates a moment. "For what?"

"I know you to be smarter than that. Playing coy won't do you much good." His carved wood stylus sets to paper once more and she can hear it scratching. "Get ready. Use the toy and the oil and remember to breathe. If you get too worked up I'll send you back to kneel and calm down."

Byleth looks in the little pouch to find he has set one of the oil vials in there as well. Sitting up, legs still spread out, she takes the long ceramic shaft in hand and pours oil over it. She coats the oil over the toy until her fingers are soaked enough that she feels sure in her next course of action. 

She lies back down and presses her fingers into herself, holding the ceramic piece in wait with her free hand. Byleth works at herself, makes sure to breathe. Stay soft and sweet and perfect for him against his sheets. Then maybe he’ll look, maybe he’ll…

She turns her head and finds the King still busying himself with something else. 

She moves herself along, scissoring her fingers inside herself until she can take the first knot in the toy confidently. Then the next. And the next. 

Each works her open wider than the last. Each glides so easily - cool smooth and warming gradually within her. 

She looks up again while she writhes, pressing the top of the wide base into her by the slightest margin and sees she has caught his eye.

From the way he fixates she'd say his attention might be a little more reliably set upon her. 

"Beautiful," her King's voice is gentle and even. "So very beautiful. Your husband is a lucky man. He must love you beyond all measure; he'd be a fool not to."

"He does," Byleth tries to keep her breathing even as he'd shown her. 

The idea of being sent back to kneel on the cushion just as he's starting to show interest, just as he seems to have turned himself far enough away from his work to really watch her, is torturous. So she works herself open, the cold ceramic sliding easily in and out of her to the rhythm he has set for her breath. 

In for four. Hold for four. Out for four. Hold for four. Then again. 

She hears him stand from his seat, his boots click on the floor. The sound is almost too much. She almost falls from the mental perch he’s constructed.

She takes his earlier advice. Goes to her happy place, sitting in a monastery garden she's not seen in years across from her husband when he was still young, soft and boyishly innocent. When she was girlishly moreso. 

"He loves me and I-" She has to stop short of declaring her love for him to keep her breath from hitching. "I'm the lucky one. I have him."

"And yet," the King says, leaning over her on the bed, the back of his fingers running over the soft slope of her jaw. "He's neglected you enough that you're here with me, so desperate you'll do anything I'd ask. I dare say I'd take better care of you than that good-for-nothing."

Byleth is silent. There is little she can say. But King Khalid pushes.

"Tell me if it's not so," he demands. "Am I not taking such care of you?"

"You take such good care of me, my King," she sighs, her mouth wetting. "You're so good to me."

The King runs his thumb along her cheek. His free hand falls over her own at the base of the delicate ceramic toy. 

"You're so easy to be good to," his smile is warm.

He pushes the third knot into her on her next stroke, the wide middle passing over her opening until only the base is left outside her body. The King places her hand on his hip and leans over her, parallel yet farther than she'd wish. 

"Hold on to me," he instructs. 

"Yes, my King," she manages before the instinct to gulp overtakes her. 

With both hands holding his waist he adjusts to lean against one hand beside her head on the mattress as the other starts to move the toy. 

Byleth remembers the smell of flowers in her garden, or tries to at least, as his new approach unsettles her from the plateau she'd found. But she suspects that was the intention. 

"Keep breathing, my Lady," he tells her. "Do you need me to count for you?"

The ceramic twists inside. The smooth, curved toy is rolling without fail on each pump against the rough bunch of nerves inside her. 

"Please, yes," she answers. "My King."

"In, two, three, four," he starts. 

Byleth makes the breath deep, deliberate. 

"Hold, two, three, four."

His pace is as steady as hers had been. It keeps to the metre he composed for her. Yet she feels so overwhelmed. Perhaps he is more adept with the techniques of the toy than she. Perhaps it is her unease with how easily this King has managed to bring her under his spell. Or perhaps…

He is watching her carefully with those emerald eyes, just like the jewel set lovingly in her ring. He is smiling. He is pleased. He wants her and touches her and it has been so long since she could say that about anyone. 

"Out, two, three, four."

Her breathing meets the pace with more ease now. More naturally. She has fallen back into the meditative space he created for her. She sinks into it warm and easy. 

Her head falls back into his sheets, her mind suddenly heavy with lazy weight. Byleth's eyes are fluttering. 

The King chuckles. The sound is warm. It laps at Byleth like waves. No longer is she in the garden with her husband to focus on her breath. She is here in King Khalid's bed listening to him laugh as he pleasures her and the beats of her breath fall into place. This is the happiest place she could imagine. 

"Do I need to keep counting for you?" He asks. 

"No, my King," she sighs. "Thank you, my King."

"Oh, my sweet Lady," he hums. "You are more than welcome."

He leans down, drags his teeth over the lace of her nightgown gown. He makes shallow nips at the embroidery over her breast so that she can just feel the tingle of his bite on sensitive, pink skin.

Byleth moans on her next breath out. 

Even at this gentle, rocking pace - between the twisting of the toy, the workings of his tongue, and the feel of the muscles on his back beneath the fabric of his shirt coiling athletically with the beat of his rocking over her - she can feel a build up. When she was by herself in her bed, flicking her finger, or having her husband please her, she was accustomed to her orgasm being reached during the heights of frantic thrumming and desperate panting. This relaxed and soft and disciplined love making was new. And it was working. 

"In equal parts passionate and methodical," her husband had said. 

She smiles as she feels her body begin the first shaky steps towards her end. 

That describes her King quite well, she thinks. If not his country. 

Byleth gasps as her next breath in comes and she feels her body clutching at nothing. 

King Khalid has pulled away, brought the toy out of her body and is walking from her, ceramic and purse in his grasp. Her now empty hands fall between her legs but without even looking back from the path across the room to the chest of toys he knows. 

"If you touch yourself I won't fuck you," he warns. 

That is enough to have Byleth flinging her hands to the bed, fingers grasping in the sheets. She was so close. He had gotten her closer than she'd been in weeks - being alone and without the time to finish herself. Now it is gone. She could feel the flicker of what could have been dying out in her core. 

"I'm sorry," she says. The King looks over his shoulder at her as he brings a cloth from his chest of treasures and begins wiping all trace of her from the shaft. "Have I displeased my King?"

"Not at all," he tells her. "On the contrary you've pleased me very well. I want to keep playing with you and I can't do that if you come now. After all, that's what you want, yes? If I let you come then we're finished. You have your relief and we'll be done with our game."

She wants to tell him no. She wants to assure him that she will lie back and let him use her as much as he likes. That even should she come she will do her best to please him however he wants for as long as he desires her. 

But this is his game. He has set the rules in place and put the pieces together for her pleasure and she must trust her King to know how to care for them both. 

So instead she sits up and looks him in the eyes. "Yes, my King."

He grins. "Kneel."

Byleth slides from the bed to the floor and crawls, slow, swinging her hips, making sure to meet his gaze. His eyes simmer with delight as they follow her motion. She is back to her place, kneeling on the golden cushion in the centre of his room. 

"I'm not going to fuck you tonight, my Lady," he tells her, finishing up with the wiping of the toy and dropping it back into the red silk purse from which it came. "And I haven't quite decided when I will want to fuck you. So you have to keep yourself ready for me."

"I understand, my King," she says, folding her hands neatly in her lap. 

She smiles when he takes steps towards her. 

"Hold out your hands, sweetheart," he says. She does as told and is rewarded with the silk purse falling into her palms. "You are to use this morning and night and at your own discretion to keep yourself wet and prepared. I'll have oil sent to your room. You will not, however, come unless you have my express permission to do so. Clean it with warm water and soap before and after you use it. Every time. Understood?"

"Yes, my King."

His fingers card through her hair, pushing her bangs back from her forehead. His thumb runs along her brow and he's smiling softly again. 

"While we're still playing you are to come to me and kneel on this cushion every night by the time the clock strikes midnight," he instructs. "Other than that I will call for you when the mood strikes me."

"Yes, my King."

His hand leaves her head and he holds it out like a gentleman. "Up."

She rises carefully from the cushion with his help. She finds herself leaning on him even as her feet are flat on his floor. She had not realized how shaky her knees would be or how the muscles of her thighs were tingling. 

"I have one more rule to give you," he says. 

Byleth stands, smiling patiently up at him. 

"After I'm done with you and before you leave me, you have to kiss me goodbye."

"Yes, my King," she says. 

She raises on her toes, no prompting required. It's been months since she's been kissed. And unlike sticking fingers inside herself and hoping to break the tension enough for a good night's rest kisses are not something she can substitute. 

King Khalid takes his time, kissing her from her bottom lip to top and then back to bottom again. He sucks gently on her bottom lip before pulling back from her. 

"Sleep well, my Lady," he whispers, rocking his body backwards as her lips try to chase his. "I need you rested."

"Yes, my King."

"Oh!" he says, a thought crossing his eyes in a flicker. "I almost forgot."

The King pinches at the skillfully done lace trail over the bosom of her nightgown. It blooms into lilies over her breast so that as he pinches the design she feels the ghost of his touch over her skin. 

"I like this. I'll send someone to wash it," he tells her. "Wear it again for me and you might just get what you want."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She could please him much better, she thinks to herself. Much better than she is now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The King says "Stay Hydrated."

Being her most trusted advisor, a general of much renown and her left hand on the council - where her husband and consort was her right - there were few things Byleth would deny Lorenz. But entry into her room this morning was out of the question. 

She can hear the murmured indignation through her door, even as she tries to drown it out. 

Breathe, she tells herself. Breathe. 

So she counts and she moves the toy around inside her, already loving the added slickness of the oil the King had gifted her. This one is different from the last. It warms up the slightest degree and makes her feel soothed. She wonders if it wouldn't do wonders for a more general massage as well. 

But still, all this is not quite enough with Lord Gloucester shrieking in the hall. 

"We have orders from the King," one guard says. "We are to ensure no one disrupts Her Majesty. Only His Majesty is to be allowed through."

The words send a shiver down her spine, even as Lorenz huffs. 

He has sent guards to her door to ensure she may rest and prepare herself for him. He is using his power to make sure his orders are fulfilled to the letter. That had been obvious enough to her when she woke to the bickering outside. 

But he is to be let in should he deign to call on her?

She imagines it. That he might shoulder past Lorenz as he demands answers for this order. He would enter her room and praise her for her efforts. He would take her right then on a whim, just as he'd promised. 

She would be wet and open and soft for him. She would breathe steady just like he wanted while he fucked her recklessly with her husband's old friend in earshot. He'd ruin everything: her dignity, her reputation, and her dear friend would certainly never regard her the same again. And she'd have no doubt it would be worth it all to please him. 

But King Khalid does not come to her or call for her yet. This fantasy remains nothing but a story in her mind to serve her body in its purpose. 

When she is pliant and wet she stashes the small vial of oil in the silk purse and wears it at her hip, strung along the sash of her dress. The toy she washes in the water basin, kept warm with magic, and deposits it in the pouch as well. 

By the time she is presentable enough to see Lorenz he has worked himself red. She can see veins at his temple and along his throat. She wishes she felt sorrier for neglecting him but she cannot bring herself to regret a chance to see his face glow as it did when they were young. 

Oh, the tricks her love would play on him. Was the bias that had her turn her cheek and feel warm when her husband-to-be managed to fluster the lordling a fair one? No. But if the monastery had been searching for the picture of professionalism they'd not have hired a non-verbal mercenary only just come of age with no history of teaching.

“Impropriety,” Lorenz says on their way to breakfast. “Impropriety of the highest order. I’m not sure what else I could have expected from the man, but I certainly did not plan to find the Queen of Fodlan barricaded by brigands.”

“They are not brigands, Lorenz,” she smacks his arm and chides him. “They are his Majesty’s hand picked royal guard. He would not post them outside my door if he did not trust them to protect even his most precious treasures.”

Lorenz scoffs. “It could cause an incident if anyone heard he had the Queen under guard.”

“I wasn’t hostage,” she rolls her eyes.

“You’ve picked up bad habits from him,” it is Lorenz’s turn to chide. 

Byleth can only throw back a grin she learned from her husband. Lord Gloucester makes a gutteral sound in the back of his throat. 

...

It is not long after breakfast when the King calls for her. 

"King Khalid desires you in the library, your Majesty," the steward bows as he speaks.

Byleth does not miss the phrasing.

"How odd," Lorenz raises a slender brow. "A little uncharacteristically formal of him, isn't it? I hardly ever hear him use his dynastic epithet."

It is the game they are playing, she knows. That is private, however, so she says instead the most likely thing to move all this along. 

He is desiring her in the library, after all.

"It must be important," she frowns as best she can. "Official business most likely. I'm sorry to part from you so early, my friend, but you understand."

"Yes, of course," he smiles. "If you would be so kind as to keep me informed on matters I'd be grateful."

Byleth supposes she will have to. 

As she follows the steward's lead down the halls bordering the King's garden courtyards, she thinks up stories she might be able to placate Lorenz with. Perhaps she could tell him he had wanted to discuss arithmetic with her, or how long she'd decided to extend her stay. 

Her husband had once told Lorenz they had been discussing succession in a locked study. Their friend had been very unamused. Whatever she came up with would have to be a bit more subtle. 

Perhaps he would take better to the suggestion that they were discussing some trade agreement, an exchange between their jurisdictions. Economics had always been a point of interest for the Count Gloucester. Not to mention he had a weakness for finery. Were she to describe to him swatches of fabrics and tastes of wine and tea from Almyra's varied territories she knew he'd be as good as caught. 

Her King would surely send her anything she described to placate the lord and keep him from probing too far. 

"Your Majesty," the steward bows as they come to the wide doors of the King's personal library. 

The man steps back and it is clear to Byleth he has been instructed to do so. 

Byleth nods to the steward. "I will be alright from here."

Evidently, this is all the man needs to scurry quickly from her, going as quickly as his legs would allow walking backwards in a deep bow halfway down the hall.

Byleth smiles. She wonders very much what he expected might be waiting there now. 

With not a second more to ponder, Byleth opens the door.

There are a great many things for her to take note of behind the door - ornaments, a rug, a mahogany desk and chair, walls lined top to bottom in books in every living language - but instead what she noted was him.

Green eyes. A tongue dragging over a bottom lip. A coat hanging over the back of a chaise. A loose white tunic only half buttoned. A sash untied, discarded on the floor. Bundled brown trousers beside it. A hand with a glinting silver ring in a fist, moving. Up, then down. Slow. 

Her brain takes the information in fragments. Her eyes take him in a piece at a time. By the time she puts the whole scene together in her mind the heavy door swings closed behind her, echoing with a dull thud. Byleth jumps a little at the sound, places her hand at the silk round her hip, reaching for a hilt that is not there. Instead, she grasps the pouch filled with her vial of oil and ceramic shaft. 

Her King snorts, more amused than a man caught in his position really ought to be. He tosses a cushion from beside him on the chaise to his feet. For all the disadvantage of his situation - a situation he is still handling in firm, savouring strokes - his voice loses no command. "Kneel, my love."

She cannot answer fast enough for the bolt she makes to the pillow. Once her knees hit the fabric she expects affection and praise to come pouring from the King, else further instruction. 

He only frowns. "You're forgetful today. When you follow an order you say 'yes, my King.'"

Byleth's mouth drops open silently and stays that way a moment before she manages her answer. "Yes, my King."

His hand stills in his lap, the free one that hung loose over his knee taking her by the chin. With her gaze brought squarely to his his frown disappears. 

"Better," he says. "But I need to make sure you haven't forgotten anything else. What are our words?"

"Lily if I need to stop, Death Cap if you need to, Gold to pause the play," she answers.

The King seems satisfied. He gives a nod. "Nicely done. And if I were to ask if I might invite Lorenz in for a lecture on etiquette, you would say - ?"

"No, my King," she does not hesitate. 

He smiles. The hand under her chin moves to caress her cheek. She leans into the warmth, takes a deep breath and settles. 

"Beautifully done, my lady," the King says. "'No' is an important word too. Remember it."

His hand does not leave her cheek as he leans back in his seat. His head hits the framed edge of the chaise with a dull sound. He sighs as his hand resumes it's motion and his thumb rubs a line over the soft roundness of her cheek. 

"Thank you for coming so quickly when I called, my Lady," he said. "As you can no doubt see, the mood struck me."

Byleth mouth goes dry suddenly - not conducive to the task she would very much like to be doing for him - so she is careful to swallow, then wet her mouth again before speaking. Salivation comes easy when she takes a moment to glance down at his working hand. 

"Let me help you, my King," she pleads. 

She hopes his hand moving to tangle in her hair will grip, will pull. She hopes to be brought closer to him. Instead, he smooths back a stray wave before combing his fingers gently through green locks. 

"You're helping just by being here," he says, voice a rasp. "I thought of you all night last night, all morning today: your dancing, your eyes, your smile, your laughter, your voice. I tried to finish my work - truly, I did - but then I remembered what it felt like to kiss you. I knew I'd be a ruined man if I did not see you."

"Just see, my King?" Byleth wets her lips. It is a trick, an obvious one, to draw his attention to them. Still, she was never much good at subtlety. 

Her husband always said that made her all the more charming. 

"Just see," he confirms. 

Byleth shifts in her seat on her haunches, breath hitching as precome gathers at his head and is caught on his thumb as quickly as it begins appearing. 

"This would be an excellent opportunity to practice some patience," he suggests. "It will help."

Byleth makes due through a round of the breathing he taught her and watching him enjoying his body alone. Her dissatisfaction, however, is not anything she tries to hide.

"You want to be useful? Even though I've said you're doing plenty?" The King smirks. Smirks are dangerous.. Byleth hears the warning in his words that is put aside when he speaks again. "Fine. Come closer, open your mouth but keep your hands to yourself."

"Yes, my King," Byleth does as asked, folding her hands in her lap as she scootches in and opens her mouth. She tries to keep her eyes up, to gauge that crease of a brow or twitch of a lip for some sort of tell. He remains blank, smug, in control. 

"Pretty," he huffs. The free hand comes back to her cheek, thumb toying with her lower lip. "Keep it open."

The King's thumb slips into her mouth, over her tongue, where it presses. Byleth stays still, feeling her mouth start to wet as he presses harder. 

"Suck," he tells her. 

She tries to get through an affirmative answer with his thumb pinning her tongue. He grins widely, leans forward to kiss her forehead as reward before settling back and watching her suck hard on his thumb. 

"Open," he says. 

She nods around his thumb, opens her mouth to feel him pressing his thumb down again. 

Her King has her take the steps, repeat the process a few more times. She is worried it gets sloppy. Spittle rolls past the corner of her mouth, over the plump of her lip, down her chin. Byleth downs the impulse to wipe it away. for the King's part, he seems not to notice, or rather, is entirely unperturbed. 

"Alright, wet enough to suffice," he declares, finally. The King grasps himself around the root and rests the warm, swollen head on the curve of her gasping mouth. Byleth squirms with the anticipation. "Spit."

It takes very little to gather up what she can. She makes him slick with her efforts. Wetness drips down from his head along his shaft. He begins to rub again, until he is pleasantly lubed. 

"All done," he says. "Very useful. Good work."

Byleth blinks as he resumes the rhythm of his fist. He says nothing further, asks for nothing else, just watches as she pulls her head back, dazed and confused. 

"Did that tire you, love?" He asks. "Here. Rest your head on my leg and relax. You did very well."

Byleth feels cheated. Still, the chance at some contact is not something she is willing to pass up for spite. 

She rests her head against the soft inside of his thigh, angling just right to spectate.

She wants. She wants very badly. She breathes through it but it does not null the ache. It is a desire punctuated by the wet sounds of his pumping on a now glistening shaft. Her eyes fixate on the work that feels stolen from her, taken up himself when she knows she could please him much better. 

She could please him much better, she thinks to herself. Much better than she is now. 

He shifts her head so it is her cheek and not her temple that rests on his thigh. She looks up at him, meeting his gaze. She parts her lips by a fraction and watches his brow knit, his eyes flicker, his breath halt. She hears his pace falter and quicken by her ear. Still, she only looks back up to him. 

It would appear she is pleasing him much better now. The thought makes her smile.

The King chokes. 

It seems, for a moment, that Byleth sees a mirage above her: her name settling on her husband’s lips. The King banishes it with a groan, then a deep breath in. Then he holds, out, holds again. 

Byleth blinks, counting the next measure of air as he keeps it. 

In, two, three, four. Hold, two, three, four. Out, two, three, four. Hold, two, three, four. 

He starts again. His pace begins to steady, though faster than it had been. 

"You're breathing like you showed me, my King," Byleth says. 

"Of course," he's careful to speak on one hold, then the next, keeping his tempo. "I would never equip my lady with a losing strategy. And you...you threaten to overwhelm me by no fault of your own."

Byleth does not break the contact of their eyes as she turns and leaves a long kiss in the hollow between his thigh and his hip. 

“Ah!” 

She watches his belly flutter beneath sheer white fabric with the staggered breath. She feels and sees that tension roll down into the tightening of his legs, his glutes, his cock. He shakes, gets louder. His face flushes but the tension does not ease up. 

Then he’s breathing again, pumping himself through it as he takes up the pattern. He twitches. 

He’s back down, pleasuring himself easy and slow as the swelling subsides. 

He looks down at Byleth with the lazy sort of satisfaction she associates with something quite a bit more wet than that. 

“You didn’t-”

The King cuts her off, taking her by the shoulder to bring her back on her haunches before standing to retrieve his trousers and sash. 

“Oh, but I did,” he says. He is panting as he stands, pulling the trousers back over his legs. They are rumpled beyond decency; but the King does not seem to care. “Just a little trick I learned. Thank you, dearest. I’ve enjoyed your company immensely.”

“Am I...being dismissed, my King?” She asks. 

“Not quite yet,” he grins like a fool, face still red. A bit of regality has drained from him and it comes almost as a shock. “Lie down on the sofa. I’m going to fetch you some water and we can have a cuddle while you finish it.”

Byleth does as asked. He drapes his coat - far too wide and tall to be any use as clothing but perfect for blanket - over her shoulders. 

He smiles when he pokes his head back through the door before leaving. “Be soft, breath easy and count to sixty. I’ll not be a minute.”

Byleth is impressed. She has only reached forty-five by the time he is settling beside her on the chaise and pulling her into his lap. He makes sure she is wrapped snugly in his coat still. Before handing her the tall, cold glass. 

“Forty-six, forty-seven,” she continues to count. 

“You can stop,” he whispers, nipping the cuff of her ear. 

“You said sixty,” she says, half expecting a pinch on the rear and a reminder not to be bratty. 

The King must have been in the forgiving mood, because he only chuckles. His fingers tip the bottom of her glass until she finds the rim resting on her bottom lip. 

“How careless of me,” he says. “You can stop and drink up now. You don’t drink enough water as is but you especially need to hydrate after doing such a wonderful job for me.”

Byleth did not feel she did much of anything, but the praise feels good regardless. Her patience with him makes it feel earned as well - perhaps that very patience is what he was praising. 

When she has finished her cup, Byleth stands. It is slow, unsure. She feels her task incomplete, somehow, despite the heady bliss her King is clearly swimming through. Then, before she has the chance to step towards the door, she hears the tap of his boot on the ground. 

"My King," she bows her head by way of apology for an almost neglected duty. 

She comes towards, leans over him, letting his hand cup her cheek. The King welcomes her lips with passion. He prolongs their kiss, as careless with their air supply as if he was native to deep waters.

Byleth takes a couple of shallow gasps when he pulls away. He laughs, waits, kisses her again. 

"I wish I could just order you to stay," he says. 

"You can, my King," she reminds him. "You can do anything you please."

"I can," he nods, a darkness seeps through the barrier of the orgasmic glaze in his eyes. "But I won't. Not when there's work."

Byleth remembers another day. She played a game she'd invented the rules to for a whole morning. It was a delightful game, a delightful morning. She got to sit with her husband all day while he worked - or tried to. He got his cock sucked. She thought that was fair. 

"I could stay while you work," she suggests. "And be of service to my dutiful King."

"It needs to get done," he concludes. "And that just won't happen with the sort of service you offer."

He gives her one last deep kiss. He lets her go before she feels starved for air this time, more steadied and sobered from his pleasure before.

"Now go." 

As Byleth finds the will to extract herself from him and walks towards the door, a sharp cough cuts her action short. With a hand on the knob, she looks over her shoulder. 

The King is smiling warmly at her. 

"I love you," he mouths, not making the sound for fear the game is too fragile for this weighted truth. 

Byleth does not begrudge him this. Sometimes it simply must be said. 

She leaves his study with that first image still in her head: Green eyes. A tongue dragging over a bottom lip. A coat hanging over the back of a chaise. A loose white tunic only half buttoned. A sash untied, discarded on the floor. Bundled brown trousers beside it. A hand with a glinting silver ring in a fist, moving. Up, then down. Slow.

"Ah!" His voice as he came with not a drop to share with her echoed in her head. 

Byleth needs her own relief. 

She groans as she remembers his orders. She can chase it all she likes, but she is forbidden from catching it. 

...

Byleth reconvenes with Lorenz for a while. He has found his way to the public gardens, as she guessed he might, and is reading through a book of poetry. Her husband had brought her a copy of that very same edition. 

“It’s newly printed with a Fodlan style of binding,” her husband had pulled the glove from his hand, tucked it into his belt and traced a bare finger over the intricate work. “The engraving was done by a traditional artisan in rural Leicester, the gold ornamentation on the tassel is from a goldsmith in Enbarr, and the leather is from a particularly thick cattle hide, bred, tanned and cured in Faerghus.” He tipped the book so the pages turned over and the contents lay out. Byleth’s eyes followed the consistency of the lettering, the uniformity of the lines. “And this, my love, is the power of Almyra’s printing press.”

Her husband had called it a triumph of peace times, of alliances forged in the interest of mankind, and the collaboration of a unified people. Byleth called it a memento for the way his eyes caught fire when he spoke of the new world. She loved that flame in his soul, loved watching it spread to engulf his features in dreams and passion. 

The commission of a hundred copies had been quite the expense. But, by the end, routes had been established between multiple trade hubs around the continent in order to make her husband’s request possible. Merchants from factions once distant now met, broke bread, shook hands, made deals. He had pushed along those brave first folks who might have waited and planned their first expedition years off with the promise of Crown gold and the Prince Consort’s approval. That it worked was a lesson Byleth took to heart. 

Staring at the book Lorenz held as he read the verse aloud could only be tolerable to the Queen for so long. Senses bore down upon her: the smell of pine tea, the feel of her hand in his, the sound of his voice, the glint of a silver ring. 

"I think I'll take this opportunity to rest," Byleth says, her standing abrupt as she turns. 

"Are you well?" Her friend asks, rising with her, book forgotten in the grass by his feet. 

"I just need to be alone a while," she says. 

It is a good explanation. Any who know her - and Lorenz certainly knows her - understand her need for quiet and space. She is not so social a creature by nature as the partner she chose or the counselors she plucked from her ranks. Byleth will not operate effectively if she is not given breaks. 

So, she slips away, back into her room. She lays on her back, closes her eyes, and chases like she had planned. On the beautiful ceramic gift with the slick, luxurious oils, she chases. 

She pries herself open to memories of nights shared with her husband, with imaginings of nights they'll share again, with the desperate hope that the King might soon see fit to give her what she craves.

When it is done, when she has walked herself down from the precipice, as per her King’s instruction, there is naught left but shadow. She wishes he was here beside her, to hold her. He’d brush her hair and kiss her lips. They’d cling tightly to each other - oh! so tightly. 

But for now she was simply here. 

Byleth was wrong. She didn’t need to be alone at all.

… 

The dusk had settled, and though the difference was mere hours, Byleth could understand the urgency of the message sent to her. The morning and its company felt distant, under the circumstances. 

“His Majesty asks if his most gracious lady would do him the exquisite honour of her unparalleled company,” says the messenger. The boy is flushed, jumpy, looking up as though he could recite the King’s words more clearly if he could just take a peek into his own skull to recall them. 

He’s begging. Byleth knows what the King looks like when he takes the metaphorical knee: a man stood tall, peppering flowery words wherever he can. 

She does a mercy to them both and follows the messenger quickly to the King’s private dining room. 

Inside, she is met by curtains drawn closed and a dining table too long for two. The room is lit at every corner by candle light. So too does the table have a chorus line of candelabras gracing it, leading her eye up to the main draw of the show: the King’s seat at the head. Around said seat are several covered trays, ceramic pots steaming and freshly prepped, and plates, goblets, cups and cutlery set at the head and in the seat to the right. 

“Lady Byleth,” he does not hide the wide grin that crosses his face, or the bursting sparks from his eyes. 

He stands in a swift motion from the head of the table, rounding it’s corner to be at her side before she can make a true approach. “Thank you, Rav! You can go now,” he nods to the messenger over her shoulder. She thinks she sees him slip the boy a sweet before one hand comes to wrap around her waist and the other takes her own. 

“I’ve missed you,” he speaks low in her ear, though the boy, Rav, has long since bolted excitedly from the room and closed the door behind him. 

“I’ve missed you too, my King,” Byleth says. 

The deep hum she is given as answer shoots a warmth through her veins. The staying kiss pressed to her lips makes her gasp. His mouth is soft, tender, yet heated. There is promise in his eyes when he pulls back. 

“It is nice to be missed,” the King notes. “So long as that means one is wanted.”

“You are, my King,” Byleth tells him, not a thought going into the sentiment. 

“As are you,” he parts from her only so long as it takes to pull out the seat on his right side. Byleth takes his hand as he helps her down into it. “I must want you very, very badly for how sorely I’ve missed you.”

Byleth cannot help but smile at that, the hollow longing she felt earlier filling out into something quite a bit more savoury. 

The King adjusts the head seat until it faces hers and he may sit parted only by the edge of his table. He takes both her hands in his to rest them there, leaning forward and looking her straight in the eye. 

“Now, what would my lady like to drink?” He asks. 

“Pine tea?” She says first. 

The King parts only one hand from their clasp and reaches towards one of the piping pots before Byleth stops him. 

“Actually,” she says. “I think I might like a bit of wine.”

“Of course,” he nods. He gestures to a collection of bottles and pitchers. “I have plenty. Would you fancy anything in particular?”

“A white,” she says. As he reaches again, she interjects. “No. Your favourite red.” His hand moves in the other direction. “Actually, my King, I think I would like some tea.”

The King chuckles, pours her the tea. When her drink is ready and she has taken a moment to breath in the pine aroma, he leans in to kiss her again - deeply this time. 

“Oh, my, but you are a finicky thing,” he says. "One moment tea, then a white, a red, tea again. There will be trouble if you lose interest in your lovers as quickly as you do your drinks."

"You'll note I did not taste or pour the others," she says. "I chose, I reassessed, and I decided I like the one I chose."

"Ah, that says more," the King smiles. There is a dangerous sort of teasing in his tone, even as his brow meets hers and she shares the same breath as his dagger-sharp words. "You chose that husband of yours. So, do you not plan to pour me? To taste me?"

"I would have tasted had you let me, Your Majesty," she says. "But you only wanted me to watch."

The King chokes on a laugh. "Patience, darling. You'll sample me all in good time; that is, if you decide you may take more than one drink."

"It's all the same drink," she replies. "Just in a different cup."

Byleth drinks and eats her fill, much to the delight of her host. He encourages her to steadily work through some of her favourite dishes: a spiced fish from Leicester, Almyran lamb and assorted skewers, even Faerghus bear makes an appearance. 

“Satisfied?” The King asks, smirking as she slows to a halt over a bit of venison. 

And she must be honest, she must always be honest for a game like this to work. So she answers, and it is not likely what he expected to hear: “it was delicious, but no. I am not satisfied. I have not been satisfied all day.”

His face drops a little - but only a little - and he reaches out to pull her from her seat and guide her into his arms and waiting lap. He is tender with her as he speaks. “My poor, dearest lady. Have I neglected you?”

She shakes her head, curling into his shoulder. His hand runs through her hair as he contemplates her answer. 

“But nonetheless, you’ve been neglected,” he concludes. “Else you’d not be so unsatisfied in my home. Tell me, who’s denied you? I’ll see it set right.”

“I was using your gift today,” Byleth begins. “I did it as you showed me until I knew I’d be ready if you wanted me.”

“Good,” he praises briefly. The hand in her hair strokes down her back. “Go on.”

“But no one was there when I was done," she says. "I was left alone."

Quiet sits between them a while. Then the King squeezes her tightly in his arms, having composed his answer.

"You miss your husband, and I have set a slow pace for us, one that doesn't entirely account for just how deeply his absence affects you - a miscalculation on my part," he says. Byleth pulls back to look in his eyes. "Normally I would not tell you this, but going forward there will be far less separation. I'll be by your side for almost all the rest of the plan. That said, I have an alternative for you now if you need it."

His hands come to her hips, grip there as he pushes her up from his lap and seats her on the edge of the table. 

"We could finish this tonight," he says. "I could turn you over, spank you until you cry everything out. Then I'd fuck you every way I can think up until dawn. When I'm done with you, you won't have to think about missing your husband ever again."

Byleth gulps. 

"Or, we could go slow. I could take you apart, just like I planned. I won't lie, Byleth, my plan may take a couple more days," his eyes darken. She watches his shoulders square up. "But I know for a fact, when we're done it'll be pure bliss, catharsis realized."

Byleth is about to give the answer, the one she thinks to be right, before the King holds out his hand. 

"This isn't a test," he tells her. "I'm giving you options and I expect you to understand yourself well enough to decide which you need. Once you make the choice, I will not hesitate to fulfill your needs as you've expressed them; so, be certain you give me an answer that is right for you. Don't tell me what you think I want to hear, understood?"

It is a shockingly tempting idea. Pent up, frustrated, lonely - any gods left in the world certainly know she could do with a good cry. The prospect at achieving the purging all at once, followed up by the sating of the unrelenting hunger she'd been holding and an immediate return to form drew her in. 

Yet, she had come to the King. She had not needed to sneak into his room under cover of night. She knew what he had wanted from her long before he'd been asking her to kneel at his feet: something protracted, sensuous, meaningful. 

“I want my King to enact his will,” she tells him. “If you have plans, see them through. I trust you to take care of me.”

The King’s eyes soften. His hand rests on her thigh to give a reassuring squeeze. 

“Come to my bed tonight,” His voice is thick and sweet as syrup. “And wear your lace. I will prove my Lady’s trust is not misplaced.”

**Author's Note:**

> So! I hope you all are enjoying to story. 
> 
> Originally I was going to dump it as ome long one shot but then I hit 10 500 words and thought "NOPE!" Gonna release that in chunks thanks! 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading and I'll see you with an update real soon!


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